


Why is the soap always gone?

by Lestradesexwife



Series: Prompt fills and Random Plot Bunnies. [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 16:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/pseuds/Lestradesexwife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has done something to all of John's soap... Maybe it was for science... maybe not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why is the soap always gone?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DraloreShimare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraloreShimare/gifts).



John kicks the front door closed and rearranges the shopping bags in his hands, shifting his keys back into his pockets. He knows better than to call out for Sherlock to help, the last time Mrs. Hudson had answered him instead and then he had tried to fend her off, eventually giving in as the plastic bags cut off circulation to his fingers and handing her the bag with the eggs in just to give her something to carry up.

Today’s shopping was heavier than usual. He wasn’t sure what Sherlock had done, but John had woken this morning to discover every single one of his personal care products emptied, the bottles rinsed out and stacked neatly in the recycling box. He was decidedly not going to ask what Sherlock had done with his bar soap.

Thankfully Tesco’s was having a special on just about everything he needed, and John had felt entirely justified in using Sherlock’s card to stock up. He was looking forward at this point to a shower, and if Sherlock was off running amuck he might even get in a nice cup of tea and some reading on the new spy novel he had picked up in the checkout line.

He considered stashing a spare bottle of body wash in his room, but that wouldn’t stop Sherlock. There was no way to fit in the skull, so he decided to put it away properly in the cupboards under the sink.

He’d settled, legs tucked beneath him and contorted slightly between the vanity and the side of the tub, with the Tesco bag between his knees when he saw it. Dark blue with gold trim, the box reeked of the sorts of expensive high street shops John passed by without a second glance. It also hadn’t been there this morning when John had been looking for anything at all with which to wash himself. John put away two bottles of body wash and a spare tube of toothpaste, wincing a little at how garish they looked next to the subtle elegance of the dark blue box. He stared at it, unable to look away deeply concerned it contained something horrible Sherlock was experimenting on and if he left it there if would begin to stink up the whole flat.

Cautiously he lifts the corner of the box, thinking only to peek inside and determine if the contents were at all hazardous. He can’t see much beyond the thin layer of protective foam wrap so he lifts the side of the box higher. He allows himself a moment to chastise himself for improper “mysterious package” protocols before he huffs in relief at finding something so obvious as a box of fancy soap in the cabinet of 221B’s loo. His sharp intake of breath brings with it the scent of the soap. And he’s not, he really isn’t the sort of bloke that goes around smelling his flatmate, but if he had accidentally gotten a whiff of Sherlock’s skin, while retrieving his mobile, or picking up his discarded scarf, even John’s ‘less than adequate’ reasoning powers are capable of sorting out that this is the soap that Sherlock uses. The scent is warm and fresh, reminds him of sun, flowers and leather. What he imagines a picnic in the south of France would smell like it one had been horseback riding. Not that John had ever thought about going on a picnic with Sherlock. The two of them sitting on a red checkered cloth, eating fresh fruit and drinking red wine in the sun. The warm smell of saddle leather and fresh grass forming the vague idea of a horse in John’s mind.

The loud bang of the front door snapped John out of his unintentional foray into pastoral imaginings and he struggled to put the box back in exactly the same spot as he had found it. The bloody lid wouldn’t close properly and he had to open it all the way to find out what had caught in the hinge. The pamphlet is sleek, shiny and covered in ornate French architecture, John’s eyes finally catch on the date on the box, “1795” and he flips through the book. Sherlock probably dusts everything in the flat for fingerprints anyway and will know that John touched the box.

His brows knit together, the pamphlet is talking about how the soaps were all designed and dedicated to Napoleon. But surely that couldn’t be right, how’d they even… John froze, his entire body aware of Sherlock’s presence in the doorway.

“John. How many bottles of that soup will I have to dispose of before you take the hint and start using my soap?”

“What?” He waves the pamphlet. “A short friend? Napoleon? Really?” Leaving off for the moment the idea that Sherlock want’s him to share his soap. John is conscious of the fact that he is kneeling in front of Sherlock, and that he appears to have crushed the pamphlet in his fist. His throat works and he considers the ways in which he might be able to stand up without drawing attention to the fact that he has been kneeling. His eyes run over Sherlock from ankle to fringe and he decides that it is probably better to stay on the floor, possibly until his legs turn gangrenous and fall off on their own.

“And why did my body wash have to die exactly?” He presses the sleek little booklet over his knee, trying to smooth out the wrinkles so it can go back into the box, and so that he doesn’t have to look up at Sherlock.

“John.” How does Sherlock manage to make his name into an entire paragraph, containing admonishment, a little ego stroking and of course Sherlock’s patented  _I’m much more clever than you and you should do what I say._  “Anderson…”

John flinched, “Yeah, alright then.” He doesn’t need to be told what the flat smelling of Anderson would do to Sherlock’s mental state. “Should I return this? You know you could have just told me instead of whatever you did to it, I wouldn’t have bought more.” He smoothed the last wrinkle out of the book and slid it back into the box. If he spent more time than necessary arranging the corners of the box to be parallel with the edge of the shelf it wasn’t to avoid turning to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock made a noise that was neither positive nor negative, he’s probably already deleted the existence of Anderson’s body wash and can’t be bothered to care how John disposes of it. If Sherlock could set it on fire it might be another story, John was fairly certain that the viscous liquid would not be flammable, but it was probably best to remove the temptation. John turned to ask if Sherlock needed to use the loo but he was already gone.

 

John shook his head and stood up, working the pins and needles out of his legs. It was fine, of course it was fine when it wasn’t possible, when married to his work meant no. John couldn’t help but wonder when he’d been included in the work. Sherlock drove off everyone who even looked at John twice, but it couldn’t be more than that… unless this was some elaborate ruse to mark John as his with personal care items.

John pushed those thoughts aside, Sherlock never failed to demand his due. John could count on being informed if Sherlock had decided he was in need of a mistress. He dumped the offending body washes back into the shopping bag and hung them off the door handle. His robe and towel were already here from his aborted attempt to shower this morning, and he checked the shower to find a bar of soap already sitting on the side of the tub, a matching shower gel replaced his store brand bottle.

His shower took a little longer than usual, as John allowed the warm sweet scent to invade his pores. He thought he might still have time for his novel and a cuppa before Sherlock’s next case.

In hindsight John could acknowledge that it had started there. Sherlock would linger longer than normal over John’s shoulder, reading his blog, standing closer while John made tea. Sherlock was glacial about it, minute increases in duration, almost imperceptible shifts even closer into John’s personal space morphing into physical contact. Glancing touches blurring into caress… until the soft touch of lips against his nape wasn’t a surprise.

Sherlock’s sinful voice against the skin of his neck. Barely a breath.

“God, John you smell amazing.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> FYI I have this http://www.rance1795.com/eng/ProfumiImperialiVainqueur.asp as Sherlock's soap.


End file.
